


Built to Last

by domesticadventures



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Beds, Established Relationship, Fluff, Inspired by Real Events, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, woodworking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 11:45:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7048942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/domesticadventures/pseuds/domesticadventures
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thought: How difficult could it possibly be? I rebuilt Dean from scratch. Certainly I can build a table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Built to Last

**Author's Note:**

> for [shellie](http://robenedicts.tumblr.com/) and her unparalleled woodworking skills. ask her for the whole sordid bed-making tale sometime. i promise you won't regret it.

Castiel is building a table.

He did his research beforehand. He drew a diagram and labeled it with measurements. He went to the store and picked out the wood. He got the pieces cut to the right size. He purchased a drill and some screws and somehow got fooled into signing up for a credit card. The cashier had given him a strange look as he handed over the form and his ID, but it had saved him twenty-five dollars. He took all his materials and put them in the trunk and hauled them back to the bunker, and now he’s building a table.

“You know,” Dean had said, back when Castiel was still in the research phase, “there are a bunch of spare tables here. You could pick out one you like. Or if you don’t like any of those, we could go to the store. Pick something up from a thrift shop. You don’t have to do this the hard way.”

“No, thank you,” Castiel had said, clicking the arrow that would take him to the next page of pressure treated lumber. “That wouldn’t count.”

Dean had shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he had said, and left Castiel to his own devices.

So Castiel is building a table. He is doing it the hard way. He has learned this: that humans place a certain value in doing things themselves, in creating things with their own two hands even when they don’t have to. Dean, for instance, has the Impala. He has rebuilt her over and over even though he could have taken her to a shop, even though he could have gotten another one just like her, even though he could have gotten another car entirely. Dean has poured time and sweat and energy into that car and made her whole and new again, and in so doing he has made her his, has made her something more.

Castiel is trying to make something _more._ He is looking at the bunker where they all live and thinking: I could pack up my things and leave and there would be no evidence I was ever here. He is looking at the bunker that was built before Sam and Dean were born but which is a part of them in the same way they have become a part of it, this place that is their inheritance and their legacy. He is looking at the new wards Sam and Dean have painted on the walls, at the way Dean has rearranged the kitchen, at the card file Sam has created for the library.

Castiel looks at the sigils carved into the concrete, pounded into metal, that were meant to keep things like him out. He looks at all the marks Sam and Dean have left here and he thinks: I want that, too. He wants to build something with his hands, wants to pour enough of himself into it that he will imbue it with a piece of his soul. He wants to be part of this place and have it be part of him. He wants to see it and know that he is home.

He had decided to start simple. A table would be useful, he thought. He pictured something small, something to put by the couch, something they could set their drinks on when they have their movie nights. He thought: How difficult could it possibly be? I rebuilt Dean from scratch. Certainly I can build a table.

He was wrong. Woodworking is very, very difficult.

He spends all day working on the table. He gets sweaty and tired and frustrated, and all he has to show for it is something half finished. The legs are attached to the tabletop, but the shorter pieces of wood meant to run between the legs and provide extra stability have been cut to the wrong size. He doesn’t know how this happened. He had a _clearly labeled diagram._

And, on top of that, it _wobbles._

He sits, glaring at his wobbly, unfinished table, and that is when Dean decides to investigate. Castiel supposes that’s fair. He’s been gone for quite some time.

“Between your carpentry and Sam’s hair,” Dean says, smiling, “it’s practically like having Jesus in the house.”

Castiel is not in the mood for good cheer. He turns to glare at Dean and then looks back at the table. He says, “Incorrect. Jesus was a much better carpenter.”

Dean laughs, and Castiel isn’t in the mood for that, either. “It’s perfect,” Dean says.

He starts to lean down, and Castiel knows what he’s going to do. He’s going to try and kiss the top of Castiel’s head as though he’s a child who has done something endearing in its inadequacy.

Castiel is _definitely_ not in the mood for that. He dodges, annoyed. He snaps, “Don’t patronize me.”

Dean stands back up, frowning. He says, “I’m not patronizing you. I like it.”

“Stop,” Castiel says.

“Stop what?”

“Lying to me to try to make me feel better,” Castiel says. Or maybe he shouts it, based on the way Dean looks hurt, then looks angry.

“Christ, Cas, I’m not--” Dean says, then stops. “You know what? Forget it. Sorry for trying.” He turns on his heel and he leaves Castiel alone with his failed project.

Castiel shoves at the table in frustration. This is a mistake. He winds up with a splinter in his palm. This is the kind of thing he would normally go to Dean for, but he thinks perhaps Dean doesn’t want much to do with him at the moment. Instead, he sits on the floor and tries to will the splinter out of his hand and will the table to stop wobbling.

Neither of these things have happened by the time Sam wanders in. “Um,” Sam says. “You okay?”

“I have a splinter,” Castiel says, defeated. He is too tired to keep being angry.

“Oh,” Sam says. “Hang on a sec.” Sam disappears back down the hallway, and when he reappears a few minutes later, he has a first aid kit in hand. He sits across from Castiel on the floor, and when he holds out his hand, Castiel offers up his aching palm.

Sam talks to him as he works. He says, “Why is this so important to you? Do you really care that much about a table?”

Castiel sighs. He says, “I wanted to make something good. To build something perfect, like the Impala.”

“Like the Impala?” Sam says. He’s digging the splinter out of Castiel’s palm so carefully and patiently that he can barely feel it above the existing ache. “What do you mean?”

“Dean has put so much work into her,” Castiel explains. “She gets dented and scratched and broken and Dean has made her like new again, over and over. He’s done this so many times that he’s made her into someplace that feels like home to him.” Castiel shrugs. “I wanted something like that. Something to care about that much because I built it.”

Sam laughs, not unkindly. He says, “You’ve got it backwards. The Impala was our home for a long time. Dean cares about her like she’s a person. Like she’s part of the family. And he puts all that work into her as a result, because he wants to take care of her. And,” he adds, as he rubs antiseptic cream into Castiel’s skin, “he doesn’t make her like new. He leaves the army man in the ashtray. The legos still rattle in the vents. Those are part of it, you know? Part of what make her home.”

“I don’t understand what this has to do with a table,” Castiel says.

“Maybe you weren’t building your own Impala,” Sam says. “Maybe you were making the army man or the legos.” Sam puts a bandage on Castiel’s hand. He says, “You’re all set.”

He lets Sam help him up off the floor and walk with him down the hallway. Sam stops at the door to his own room. “Dean’s in the kitchen,” he says, before he steps inside.

Castiel finds Dean in the middle of making hamburgers. They are Castiel’s favorite, and he knows this means that Dean isn’t angry. He sits at the table and he says, “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” Dean says, not looking away from his work. “You wanna explain what’s going on?”

“I wanted to make something we could use,” Castiel says. “Something that would prove I belong here.”

Dean turns to him, then. He doesn’t look angry. He looks hurt. He says, “Cas. You _do_ belong here. You don’t have to prove it. You just -- you belong. Do Sam and I not make you feel like that?”

“It’s not that,” Castiel says. “It’s just -- I wanted to make something that would become part of the bunker. Something that would outlast me and prove this was my home.”

“This _is_ your home,” Dean says, insistently. “It isn’t -- it’s not the stuff in it that makes it home. It’s the people, Cas. And you made that already. You made something. You made this.” He gestures between them. “Us. You don’t have to make anything else. That’s enough.”

“Dean,” Castiel says. He doesn’t know what else to say.

Dean sighs. He turns back to his cooking.

Castiel watches. Dean is making hamburgers by hand. Castiel knows you can get them already made. You can buy them frozen and precooked so all you have to do is toss them in the microwave. You can buy them raw but pre-formed so all you have to do is toss them on the stove or the grill. You can pick them up from a diner or a drive-thru. But Dean is making them by hand, mixing the meat and spices and eggs and forming the patties himself. He’s doing it the hard way, because he knows Castiel likes these the best. The patties aren’t exactly round and sometimes they kind of fall apart. They don’t turn out perfect. But they’re special anyway, because Dean is making them for him.

“Jesus may have been a great carpenter,” Dean says, “but it’s not what he’s remembered for.”

Suddenly, Castiel thinks he understands what both Sam and Dean have been getting at. He understands what he was missing, and he feels foolish.

He is still feeling that way by the time they go to bed. He flops down onto the mattress in defeat.

The bed creaks.

Dean huffs a laugh. He looks down at Castiel. He says, “I have an idea.”

\--

Dean and Castiel are building a bed.

“We’re going to over-engineer the shit out of this thing,” Dean had said. “We’re going to make it so damn sturdy that it’ll still be around a hundred years from now.”

Castiel had thought: Historically, a hundred years has not been a very long time for me. He had understood the sentiment, though, so he hadn’t commented.

Instead, he had asked, “You have experience with woodworking?”

Dean had grinned. He had said, “Nope, not a bit.”

They had decided to give it a shot, anyway. They sat together and made a plan. They measured the mattress, researched materials, drew a diagram. They checked and rechecked and triple checked the calculations. They went to the store, they picked out the very best four-by-fours, they got everything cut exactly to size. They purchased something they learned is called a “flycutter.” They loaded everything up onto a cart and Castiel had purchased everything with his new credit card. “Thank you, Mister White,” the cashier had said, and Dean only held off his laughter long enough to say, “Thanks for picking up the tab, Walt.”

So now Dean and Castiel are building a bed. They’re doing it together. They’re making it with their own hands, this thing that will support them, that will be something to come home to, will be the place they spend -- well, not a third of their time, like some people get. They do not often have the luxury of spending so much time sleeping. But what time they do spend -- this will make it even better.

They use the flycutter to dig out holes in the wood, then drill pilot holes in those holes, then screw in the huge six inch bolts. They have to do this by hand, one by one, hole then pilot hole then bolt, piece by piece, to make sure everything connects properly. It’s slow going. More than even an all day project.

Sam comes to watch. He brings them water, at first, and then, when they start to get cranky and sweaty and gross, he promises to bring them beer as soon as they’re done.

It takes them hours and hours, and when they get to the point of putting in the center support, they realize it’s a few inches too short.

“I swear to God,” Dean says, “we checked these calculations at least half a dozen times.”

“Did you take into account the fact that four-by-fours are actually more like three-and-a-halfs-by-three-and-a-halfs?” Sam offers. He sounds very chipper about this.

Castiel suspects neither of them is in the mood for being chipper, but Dean doesn’t seem angry or frustrated or defeated. He turns to Castiel and he grins. He says, “We can fix this.”

They cut a scrap piece to the size of the gap. They find a mallet buried in a toolbox and Dean lets Castiel slam it into place.

It works. It’s very satisfying.

They don’t finish the frame in a single day like they were hoping. They don’t finish the next day, either. It winds up taking them the better part of a week to get everything put together just right, to sand down the rough edges, to stain and polish it.

When all is said and done, they drag it to their room. They move out the old frame and shove the mattress against the wall. They put the new, hand-made frame down and put the mattress back on top.

“Let’s give this a whirl,” Dean says, and sits himself down on the closest corner.

It wobbles.

“Uh,” Dean says. “Maybe it’s. Maybe it’s some issue with the floor, you know? Maybe they didn’t pour the concrete correctly, so it’s uneven, and.” He gestures vaguely.

Castiel fights a grin. He raises an eyebrow. He says, “Mmm.”

Dean rolls his eyes as he gets up. He digs through a box and comes up with an old magazine. He has Castiel lift up the corner so he can shove it under the bed.

Castiel does the honors, this time. He falls back onto the bed, arms spread. It doesn’t move.

He smiles up at Dean.

He says, “Perfect.”


End file.
